Solace In You
by crayondelune
Summary: After fulfilling her grim duties as President Coin's Mockingjay for too long, a heartbroken Katniss finds comfort in the last person she expected to see again. NSFW.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N:_ This story takes place about five pages before the end of _Mockingjay. _In the book, Katniss has been asleep on her sofa in her house in Victor's Village when she is woken up by the sound of scraping from outside. In the book, Katniss runs from the house and sees that Peeta has come back to 12. For the sake of this AU, it's not Peeta she finds when she runs outside._**_  
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_I wake with a start. Pale morning light comes around the edges of the shutters. The scraping of the shovel continues. Still half in the nightmare, I run down the hall, out the front door, and around the side of the house, because now I'm pretty sure I can scream at the dead. When I see her, I pull up short._

Glancing up at me with wide, brown eyes, her hands filthy and clutching a metal rake, is literally the last person on earth I would expect to see here outside my home, dead friends and relatives included. Johanna Mason takes me off guard in casual clothes—it seems like every time I've seen her she has been in a hospital gown or some sort of uniform, and of course I can't forget the tree costume or the time she was naked in that elevator—and I notice her short hair has evened out and no longer looks like an accident, but I still know her immediately from her dark eyes, the gentle-yet-defined lines of her face, and the pale and somehow powerful contours of the muscles in her arms. For the first time in weeks, a blush comes to my cheeks as I realize my look has lingered just too long. But it's okay because I'm crazy, right?

I shift my glance to the rake she holds and ask, "Johanna, what are you doing?" I am genuinely confused and forget almost completely about the awful nightmare that brought me out here.

I instinctively look back to her face when I speak. There's something in the way she is looking at me that I don't trust. It's not because I am suspicious of Johanna for anything, but for the first time, she looks torn between insulting me and saying something neutral, or even nice. There is a battle being waged behind her calm exterior, but what is it with? Sympathy? Compassion? Companionship? Or possibly just morphling? She seems steady-handed, though, as she leans her rake against the side of my house and brushes her hands off on her dressed down denim pants. She takes a couple of steps toward me; makes my affront into a conversation.

"I am clearing out a space for a garden," she says as if that is enough to answer my question. When my blank face tells her it's not, she explains, "It's part of my therapy. My head doctor thinks I need to learn to be 'soft' and 'gentle' sometimes, so he wants me to be responsible for something. For a life. Only he wouldn't trust me with an animal or anything like that unless I proved that I could keep plants alive."

"Okay," I respond, but I don't think she understood what I was asking. "But I meant what are you doing _here_?"

"Oh, well I figured if I was going to have a garden, I'd rather it be where someone can see it, and there really aren't many places around here where people would," she gestured out to cluster of houses called Victor's Village, "so I brought it to you." I think to myself that this is possibly the most she's ever said to me at once, certainly the most she's said without insulting me. Maybe I shouldn't push my luck, but what does it matter, anyway? This is the most I've spoken at all in a while.

"What are you doing _'around here'_? In this place? In District 12?" I can tell after I ask that she knew what I was asking, she just didn't want to answer. She ponders the question for a second, and then looks away, back toward the patch of grass she was just de-leafing.

"Why shouldn't I be here?" she asks. "There is nothing for me anywhere else. District 13 sucks. You couldn't pay me to go to the Capitol. 7 just isn't home anymore. Too much bullshit, ya' know? Stirs too much up."

I do know. She has no idea the state my life has been in since Prim's death, but she can probably relate better than anyone else in the world. There is a little comfort in that, the first bit of comfort since it all went down, and I surprise myself by welcoming it. Maybe my own mother can't handle to be around this wrecked up, shadowy version of myself, but Johanna is broken, too. She's lost everything to the Capitol, and when she had nothing left to take away, they aimed for her sanity, her very quality of life. Just like me.

I've been standing for too long and start to feel a little dizzy, so I walk past Johanna and sit down in the grass of her little clearing with my back leaning against the house. With little hesitation, she follows suit and lowers herself down next to me, close. Surprisingly, her company is the first thing that's made me feel anything positive in weeks. I could just soak it up here in the shade of my Victor's house until I'm forcibly removed. She's the first to speak.

"It's strange, thinking of being responsible for raising a garden, responsible for giving life. Especially after District 7, where your primary responsibility is the death of the very plants I am supposed to be tending to here."

"I guess it would be," I say thoughtfully. I have had a lot of time lately to ponder death, too. "But someone has to tend to the forests of the lumber district, too, surely. You have to keep the trees alive long enough to be of use to you. Like raising cattle for slaughter… or children."

The tears are falling from my eyes before I know I am crying, and I know there is no stopping them now. The whole in my chest where my heart once was is hurting around the edges now, like a gash, but there is no blood, no physical wound to show for it. I ball my hands into fists and look in the opposite direction of Johanna, thinking maybe she won't see my tears, but it's too late for that as well.

That's when Johanna does something I never would have seen coming from her. She reaches over and ever so gently, she puts her hand on one of my wrists. The touch of her skin comes as a shock to my nerves and for a moment I forget the pain. Her fingers slide down the palm of my hand and undo my fist, lacing into mine.

Could this work? I start to wonder. Could Johanna and I exist side-by-side in solidarity with each other, providing comfort to one another without constantly reopening our wounds? The whole in my chest throbs painfully and the tears don't stop, but alongside the familiar there is suddenly a new feeling. With this thought, for the first time since the bombing outside of President Snow's mansion, I think I feel… hope.


	2. Chapter 2

Johanna and I have spent the last few weeks both trying our hardest to heal each other. It's unspoken, but I know this. I think in doing so, we may be healing ourselves. I didn't used to think it was possible to crave the sneaking feel of a grin on my face again, or to go out and do something, like work in the her garden or walk through the woods with my bow, because I wanted to—because it felt nice. But lately I've found myself doing these small things. When Johanna comes over, I don't feel at all like the zombie I was when it was Greasy Sae taking care of me. It's nothing against Greasy Sae, of course—what a strong, kind woman—but I think that it's because she wants me to get better for _me_. That just doesn't interest me at all. What would be the point?

I want to be better for Johanna. I have to know that she is going to be okay again. I have to know that she will be able to do such simple, beautiful things again, like taking a bath or letting someone stroke her hair, without seeing everything they did to her, everything they have done to her family and her soul. It is easier for me to not think so much about my last moments with Prim now, because I can hardly stop thinking about Johanna's horrors. If there were a way for me to take on all the pain, addiction, suffering, and insanity that the Capitol causes her still to this day, I'd do it in a heartbeat. I find that I do better when my obsession is not my solitude, but my wanting to see the only friend I have left with a genuine smile on her face, one that leaves no dark flecks of pain or crazed remnants of torture in her eyes.

It's been three weeks to the day since I walked out on that pale morning to find her digging up a garden next to my house. I asked her then what her plan was, to stay in 12? Where? She said she'd arranged to occupy one of the empty houses in my little Victor's Village. She is, after all, a Victor herself. Officially, that is where she is staying, but it is so hard to be alone, I know. Both of us have trouble with it. When I am alone in my house, I am only bombarded with memories of being here with people I love: Prim, always making herself useful cleaning the wounds of Mother's burn victims; my mother before she was broken; kissing Gale and breaking his heart. In her house across the circle from mine, Johanna is only bombarded with another kind of horror: complete solitude; a big house with nothing of hers in it. It's fully furnished, yes, but she has nothing from home, no tokens of the people she has lost. Neither of us handle it very well, a fact that became quite clear within the first few days of her being here.

Every morning we'd be up at the crack of dawn, looking ragged and sleep-deprived, finding some lame excuse to be near each other—"I have no food in my house" (lie) "I thought I heard someone breaking in to your house" (her) "There's a big rat scaring Buttercup and I can't find it to kill it" (me)—until the excuses weren't lame or made-up anymore. On the fourth morning, Johanna didn't knock. She came in through my unlocked door, found where I was sleeping (the couch in the living room, that time), and sat on the floor next to me, leaning against the sofa and hugging her knees. There she waited for me to wake up from my own horrors. When I did, she asked me if I would help her wash herself. I've never seen anyone look so vulnerable, let alone the strongest woman I know, and that's when our current routine began.

Now, every day we tend to her garden together. It's coming along nicely, she says. I know nothing about it, but I can pick out the differences in the seeds and bulbs. My father taught me to differentiate, and to know which buds are useful and which will kill me, but Johanna's the one teaching me to grow them. After that, we usually find something to eat, either with Greasy Sae or on our own, and then walk down to the main town where construction and rebuilding is still the center focus, or out to the woods to catch dinner or just be with each other. Some days, we'll see Haymitch sitting by the front window of his house or on his front porch, watching us with a bottle hanging from one hand and a knowing (or just drunk) look on his face. Some days, we see no one but each other, and I help Johanna clean up. She can handle sponge baths if I hold her hand, and it comforts her when I wash her hair, kneading whatever hope, strength, and love I have to give into her scalp as I metaphorically scrub away the painful memories, or try to.

Every night ends the same now. She hasn't slept in her own house since that third night. We both always feel more whole when we are holding each other's hand, but who knew human touch could make such a big difference? That first night she asked if she could stay the night was an experiment—maybe if we go to bed knowing we are not alone in the house, we would sleep better? The nightmares still came, though, and I couldn't sleep. I could hear Johanna thrashing in bed in the guest room, and I took it to mean that she couldn't escape hers, either, but they didn't wake her. After a few minutes, I couldn't stand it, and I went to her room and crawled into her bed with the intention of waking her up. I came up behind her and, not knowing exactly what to do, wrapped my arms around her slender, shaking body, arms and all. She stopped tossing. I couldn't tell if I had woken her up, but dreaming or not her hands found mine and held them to her the rest of the night. It was as if she was scared I would leave her, which I had no intention of doing, so I squeezed back and felt more whole than I had in a very long time.

I remember that first night so clearly now, as I lie here behind her with our bodies touching gently and draw careful, invisible patterns on the bare, pale skin of her arm. It is weeks later, and I am watching the dim sunlight of early dawn stream across Johanna's face. She's sleeping, and peacefully at that. I don't think I've ever seen anything this beautiful, and I have a feeling in my heart that we are doing the right thing. Where would I be without her now? Where would she be without me? I never expected this to happen, and I don't entirely understand it myself, but it's here and it's real and I want nothing more than to hold her together like this forever.

Of course, things don't always work that way, and especially not for me. The more I come to this morning, I start to realize that something feels different. Sounds different. Smells different. Through my open window, I can faintly smell exhaust that I haven't thought of in weeks, and can just barely make out the quiet rumble of the train. A million thoughts race through my head. A month ago, I wouldn't have felt this curiosity, but now I have to know who is here in my district, because I am sincerely not ready for things to change yet. A jolt of fear rocks my body and my mind tries to throw out ideas of change. _I'm not ready_.

I have to know, though, so I untangle myself from the bliss of bed, careful not to wake Johanna. Wearing just a loose t-shirt and baggy sleep shorts, I tiptoe out the door of the bedroom, down the stairs (avoiding the creaks), and to the front door. Something just tells me that whatever arrived on that train is here for me, so I stop at the door and brace myself before swinging it open.

Three blond heads, across the circle. Two are vaguely familiar, and one I would know anywhere in any situation. All three of them are attached to bodies carrying small amounts of luggage, and none of them are looking at me. I step out onto my porch and rub my eyes to see a little better. Sure enough, there is Peeta Mellark, standing on the front porch of his own Victor's house, a suitcase in one hand, the blond girl's in his other. The third person is standing off to the side, seeming a bit distracted, and as I step forward, he looks my way. I know him now, and suddenly I know the face of the girl, too. These visitors are District 12 survivors, too. The boy's name I cannot remember, but his sister, the girl holding hands with Peeta, is unmistakably Delly Cartwright.


	3. Chapter 3

The acidic taste of bile rises in the back of my throat. I pivot where I am standing, swing open the front door, and run to the downstairs bathroom of my house to avoid soiling my front porch. I have no idea where this reaction has come from, but I'm puking disgust and all I can think is, '_do not want!'_ I get violently ill one time and slump to the floor, resting my forehead up against the cold porcelain toilet seat. My heart pounds in my ears, and the nausea subsides quickly, though I still can't fully catch my breath. I reach up and flush the toilet, just daring myself to be sick again. Where did that even come from?

I focus on breathing normally to get my heart to stop racing, but something about what I've just seen—_who_ I have just seen across the road—has me all kinds of flustered. It is bizarre to think that I am again in the same vicinity as Peeta Mellark. It has only been a handful of weeks since I last saw him, but everything has changed. Drastically. I cannot place exactly how I have changed. I mean, obviously my routine is as different as humanly possible, and I have befriended the last person in all of Panem I would have expected to, but have my feelings toward Peeta changed enough in that short period of time that the sight of him makes me physically ill? Or is it something else?

Is it the sight of his companion? Is it the idea of Delly—quiet, simple Delly Cartwright who has never said a shameful thing about anyone but has also failed to say much of anything interesting at all—touching him, holding his hand, sharing his luggage? Those things were bits of _my_ future at one point in time, you know. That hand was mine to hold, on camera or in a dark room or perhaps on the train or at our wedding or—why are these images bombarding me? I don't think I ever loved Peeta, so why am I shaking with what I can only label as envy at the sight of him with her? There are tears—of jealousy or maybe just confusion—welling in my eyes, but I squeeze them shut and count to ten.

As I get to about eight, the door to the bathroom slowly swings ajar and I crack one of my wet eyes open a bit to confirm who I know it must be standing there. Peeking over, I see Johanna's bare feet in the doorway, toenails cut short and ankles and calves now slightly tanned and prickly. I shouldn't let her see me like this, probably. We have both been doing so well lately that I'm not sure how she'd react if I were to break down.

_Nine._

_Ten._

I clear my throat and discreetly wipe my eyes off on the short sleeve of my t-shirt, making it look like I am just wiping my nose and mouth after getting sick. With a clink, Johanna sets a half-full glass of tap water on the counter next to me and, breathing almost normally again, I lift my head and look up at her with a look somewhere lost between a grimace and a smile.

Johanna's skinny arms are loosely crossed over her chest and she looks distracted or slightly annoyed but she doesn't mention whatever it is that is bothering her.

"You alright, Brainless?" she asks me, not quite meeting my gaze. The fact that she brought me water when she must have heard me retching tells me she's not mad at me, but she hasn't called me _Brainless_ since we were in District 13 and it gives her concern a distant feel. I do not like it. I start to feel like maybe my heart is not going to come out of my stomach today and wonder what it could be that's got her acting weird. But I can't exactly accuse her of being pissy just because she uses her old nickname for me, so I answer her.

"Yeah, I'm fine." Who knows if that's true? I sure do feel weird saying it, though. "Just a little sick. Sorry I woke you up…" I stand slowly and take a drink from the glass of water she brought me, just for something to do. We are in very close proximity here in the bathroom. It's not like this is the closest we've been—after all, I help her bathe and we sleep in the same bed—but for some reason this is the first time that it has felt awkward or uncomfortable and I cannot quite pinpoint the elephant in the room.

"Good," she says after a moment of awkward silence. "And that's fine."

That's all she says before turning around where she stands and walking back down the hall and up the stairs out of range. For reasons beyond my control or understanding, once she is gone the tears start to well up again, and though I don't feel like I am going to be sick again, I run the water cold and splash it on my face.

An hour and three times brushing my teeth later, I am sitting at my kitchen table staring blankly at the doorframe that leads to the main hallway. Johanna seemed so irritable earlier that I didn't think she would have appreciated my following her back to the bedroom, so I came here instead. Right now I am staring at the exact spot where I kissed Gale, one of the last times I saw him. It seems like years ago. I am trying to make myself feel something about it—anger, regret, fondness, anything—but I just… don't.

Looking at this place that should be making me miss Gale or something, suddenly an emotion does flare up. It's not Gale, though. The only thing I feel suddenly is urgency, and my heart picks up pace. It's not the memory I've forced into my mind that brings on the reaction. It is one that sneaks up on me:

_I was standing in that doorway one morning about two weeks ago, talking very playfully with Johanna as she poured herself a glass of milk. I do not recall the particulars of the conversation, but after Johanna had put away the milk jar and closed the refrigerator, she walked over, very close to me, and with her hand not occupied by her glass, she brushed a stray strand of my hair out of my eye and behind my ear. We both forgot what we were saying, blushed slightly, and changed the subject, never to speak of the little exchange._

My heart races and my breathing quickens as I start connecting dots I didn't even realize were there: wanting only for each other's happiness and company, only being able to sleep when touching or holding one another, little smiles and exchanges that bring a sudden blush to both our cheeks. _Wow, I really am brainless_, I think. I stand up and push my chair back from the table and let my sense of urgency take control. I cross the kitchen in three heartbeats and swing myself into the hallway and up the stairs, two at a time.

I do not bother knocking on my own bedroom door as I open it. I take a step in to find Johanna sitting on my bed, back against the wall, hugging her knees with an expression on her face similar to the one I had been wearing downstairs. Two of a kind, we are. Her eyes dart to me when I come in and she raises an eyebrow at me. Without hesitating or thinking twice like I probably should, I continue to walk forward until I am at the bed. I want to ask her why she was angry this morning. I want to tell her what I've just realized. I want to ask her if she feels it, too, when she looks at me. But I am terrified to hear the answers to any of these things, so completely going against logic and rationality, I lean forward and catch her off-guard by kissing her right on the lips.

I can tell I've caught Johanna unawares by her lack of instantaneous reaction. She doesn't push me away. She doesn't kiss me back. In awe that I actually kissed her, I pull back, blushing scarlet. I want to slap myself. I dare a glance at her expression and she looks stunned and unsure of what actually just happened. I've never been so embarrassed and after two completely heart-wrenching seconds that feel like months, maybe years in themselves, I turn to walk back out of the bedroom and I don't know, go throw myself down the stairs or put my head in the oven or something. Johanna stops me by grabbing my hand.

I turn back slowly, and see a look that screams a combination of uncertainty, terror, and something raw and primal I have never seen in her eyes before, like she is fighting inside her head with a demon that is closer to winning than it ever has been. Her mouth, hanging half-open before, has been sewn shut and she chews on the inside of her bottom lip. This look makes me feel things beyond anything I have felt before. It feels like the swelling, anxious feeling I just had in my heart and my stomach downstairs thinking about her, only it has consumed more of my body now. I feel it in my groin and it blinds me in my head. Where our hands are touching now a fire is starting in my veins and it spreads so fast I can feel it in my toes before either of us moves.

"Oh, fuck it. Come here," Johanna says, sounding out of breath though she hasn't moved from this spot in over an hour. Her grip on my hand tightens long enough to pull me toward her on the bed and then she lets go, moving her left hand to my hip and using her right hand to lace fingers through my hair and pull my face toward hers. Our lips touch again and this time move together. Johanna pulls me down from where I am standing onto the bed and moves so that she is on her side leaning over me. I have never felt anything like the way her kisses make my heart flutter and my belly ache to be closer to her. No matter how much work her lips are occupied with, we are both hyper-aware of every movement from every other body part. Her hand on my side finds its way underneath my t-shirt to the sensitive skin on my hip and I suck in a breath sharply. Johanna's lips stray from mine for just seconds at a time to explore other bits of my face and neck. Every time she kisses me somewhere else, I remember to breathe though it comes in an unsteady, beautiful rhythm.

My shy-yet-hungry hands are everywhere on her they've been before, but with new intentions. They are in her hair, pulling her closer to me if at all possible, grabbing it in my fist when she does something that forces me to clench my muscles. They are on her arms, feeling her toned figure with a new appreciation and lust. They are on her hips, memorizing every part of her and every movement she makes toward me. They find the small of her back as she pressed her lips to my jugular and we both lose it.

Shoving my loose shirt up to my chest, Johanna forces my hands away from her for long enough to remove it completely. She is eager to go back but I take the opportunity to free her of her tank top, as well. Both garments are thrown blindly to the floor and Johanna presses her lips back to my neck. My back arches as her hands stroke the small of it, thrusting my chest toward her. My breaths come more audibly, almost moans, as her kisses move from my neck, to my sternum, to my chest, and back up to my collarbones. With one hand driving me crazy and arching my whole torso into her, she moves the other to my breast and catches my hard nipple between her thumb and index finger.

She kisses my collar, my neck, my cheek, my lips—silencing me for just a moment—and my ear. She puts just enough pressure on my nipple between her fingers to make me shake with pleasure and longing I've never felt before and sucks me earlobe in between her lips. I can feel and hear her ragged breath as she traces her tongue along the outside of my ear. If I had known what this felt like before today, I doubt I would have minded so much spending sleepless nights in bed with her.

My hands have been all up and down her sides and mostly in her hair this whole time, but when I feel her fingers leave my breast and start travelling southward down my stomach, they instinctively fly to her wrist. Johanna backs off just a bit and grabs both of my wrists in one hand loosely. Moving my arms slowly up above my head to the pillow I lay on, she comes close to my face and looks me deep in the eyes. "Trust me, Katniss…" She is pleading with her look, I can feel my heart beat in my groin, and my fears may not be completely dissolved but they are outshined by the depth of the longing I feel. I crane my neck up to meet her lips with mine, silently telling her to go on, and she does.

I do not think a single inch of skin between my neck and the waistband of my shorts goes unkissed over the next five minutes, and by the time she gets there I am eager for her to slip her thumbs underneath and let my bottoms fall to the floor as well. I ache for her. At some point along the way, she released my wrists, trusting the sounds of pleasure escaping my lips, and now my hands are on her shoulders, my nails digging into her back in an uncontrolled rhythm. My shorts are on the floor somewhere and Johanna's kisses skip right over the place I thought she was headed. They pick up again on the in-side of one of my thighs, her hand stroking the other and pushing gently outward to spread my legs. I can feel her breath down there and it feels cold because of how wet I am.

At an excruciatingly slow pace, Johanna's lips and tongue work their way to where I need them most. Her tongue seems to leave her mouth and find home inside me and the pleasure nearly blinds me. "You really want this, huh?" Johanna lifts her head long enough to ask me with an evil grin. The only response I can manage is to dig my nails into her shoulders and push her back closer to where she was, but she's not letting me off easy. She dips her face down and plants a kiss about three inches too high and looks back to my face. I glare at her and she does it again, one inch further away. She is toying with me now and the only way to get what I want is to beg. I know she wants this as badly as I do. I can feel it. But she is also the most stubborn woman I have ever come in contact with and I relent.

"Please, Johanna," I whisper. Her finger slides down my middle, between my legs, and I moan rather loudly, but she is still teasing me.

"Please what?" she asks with a cruel faux-innocence. Her head dips down and she flicks my clitoris with her tongue.

"Please, Johanna, just fuck me," I beg and it comes out as half-sentence, half-groan because I barely get through saying it before she is on me, her lips and tongue doing some intricate exotic dance on my clit as she pushes two fingers (and a third, shortly after finding how easily they enter me I am so wet at this point) inside me. Her other hand is on my breast, teasing my nipple and making my back arch in unbelievable pleasure. I scream involuntarily as she pushes in and gasp as she pulls all the way out, over and over, with a slightly different angle each time. She seems determined to touch every millimeter of skin and muscle, on the inside and outside of my body, and though I have never done this before my body seems to know just how to move to help her cause.

Part of me feels we could do this forever and ever without stopping, but a bigger part of me yearns for the inevitable climax and it is the latter that wins out. My breath catches mid-moan and my muscles tighten around Johanna's fingers a million times in just a few heartbeats, contracting and pulling her into me as tiny explosions containing huge amounts of pleasure take place in every nerve of my body.

When it lets up we are both spent. Drenched in sweat, my back falls flat back onto the bed. I'm no longer on the pillow, I am halfway down the bed and Johanna is propping herself up on the bed with one foot on the floor. She rests her forehead on my belly, her fingers still inside me, waiting for the last of my muscle spasms to stop. Neither of us have enough breath to say anything, but we don't need to say anything yet.

After at least five minutes like this, Johanna does remove herself from me (sending one last wild jerk through my body) and crawls up the bed, bringing me with her, so that we are both laying on it properly. We are sweaty and hot and sticky, but she throws her leg on top of mine and swings her arm around my stomach, holding me close, and rests her cheek on my beating heart. I wrap my arm around her and let her lay on me, not that I am very able to do anything else at all right in this second. It is blissful, laying here with her, and I enjoy it for approximately 60 seconds before we are both in a deep, dreamless, mid-morning sleep.


End file.
